


The Pursuit of Stone; A Chance Meeting

by BabbleKing (Babblish)



Series: The Heart of Janus [2]
Category: Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bonus Content, Changelings, Conlang, DVD Extras, Espionage, Historical drama, Intrigue, M/M, Monsters, Other, Shapeshifters - Freeform, The Janus Order is a Cult, teaser
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:01:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26477653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Babblish/pseuds/BabbleKing
Summary: After centuries of effort, Scaarbach has finally ascended up the ranks to be worthy of the polymorph ability... but he won't be allowed to keep the honour if he can't locate another piece of the Killahead Bridge after he so foolish lost the first.So now he looks for clues hours away from the Temple of Lost Whispers, the Janus Order base hidden in Shiraz, investigating rumours that may not turn out to be true at all.Ties in withWhispers Within,Under the Sun,and the rest ofThe Heart of Janus au.
Relationships: Otto Scaarbach & Original Character(s), Otto Scaarbach/Original Character(s)
Series: The Heart of Janus [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1470869
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	The Pursuit of Stone; A Chance Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Death, Guns, Violence, Nudity, Drugs, Sexual References, Allusions to Heat Exhaustion and Dehydration
> 
> For those who are unfamiliar with how changeling lang is written and are curious what the non-standard English letters mean;  
> ç = either a ch or roughly a hy sound.  
> ([voiceless velar fricative](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Voiceless_velar_fricative.ogg) or [voiceless palatal fricative](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Voiceless_palatal_fricative.ogg))
> 
> þ = either a t or d in this dialect.  
> ([voiceless alveolar plosive or ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Voiceless_alveolar_plosive.ogg)[voiced alveolar plosive](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Voiced_alveolar_plosive.ogg).)
> 
> y = long i, as in sleep.  
> ([closed front unrounded vowel](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Close_front_unrounded_vowel.ogg))
> 
> š = sh  
> ([voiceless palatoalveolar fricative](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Voiceless_palato-alveolar_sibilant.ogg))
> 
> ŋ = ng ([velar nasal](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Velar_nasal.ogg))
> 
> ä = ai as in air. ([near-open front unrounded vowel](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Near-open_front_unrounded_vowel.ogg) or [open-mid front unrounded vowel](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Open-mid_front_unrounded_vowel.ogg))

To say the negotiations went badly would be a gross misrepresentation of the facts. His target had insisted they meet in an essentially deserted village a full two days travel away from the Temple of Lost Whispers, the Janus Order base hidden in Shiraz. And so the unfortunate changeling had arrived woefully late. At the last minute, the interpreter he had hired _refused_ to deal with the likes of his quarry, and Scaarbach had been left stammering and flicking through the beginner’s Farsi phrasebook like a pathetic tourist.

The target was, in no uncertain terms, an unsavoury man. He had swaggered like the richest of kings, his gun on display for anyone and everyone to see. Scaarbach had not been impressed. It was uncouth, in his opinion, like swanning around with one’s genitals poking through their flies like a particularly egregious kind of pervert.

He had been flanked by two intimidating grunts, wearing what was probably supposed to evoke military uniform, neither formally western or Persian in design, but in Scaarbach’s mind made them seem like farmer’s dressed up for a wedding. He had smuggled his own pistol but the grunts had frisked him almost immediately and confiscated the bullets. Of course, he had piano wire hidden in his coat lining but there was no way even he could take all three of them on with guns involved.

In the end, it became apparent the only way Scaarbach was going to be able to complete the mission was to appropriate the goods and ascertain their authenticity in a safer location. He had no other choice than to grab the case and run. So grab and run he did.

He dashed through empty streets, suitcase in tow, as fast as his legs could carry him. The three men were following him. Of course they would be. If Scaarbach was in their shoes he wouldn’t stop until he was dead. His hat had fallen off, so the midday sun beat down on his face with the force of a hundred angry suns. He longed for a day when the sky was shrouded in darkness and he didn’t have to worry about sunburn ever again.

He ducked into an alley between two crumbling buildings and took the form of a young boy, throwing the case over his shoulder and taking a different route. It was his first time in the field he’d been able to use such a power and it was exhilarating. The choice of a boy, however, had probably not been the right one. His little arms and legs were not adept at carrying a suitcase and running at the same time.

He dove into a window and after checking he remained unseen, took the form of a woman. He ran back out into the street and ran, cursing the heels that threatened to break under his gait, the corset that groaned under his heaving bosom, and the wretched bouffant that had come undone almost immediately.

He passed a group of elderly ladies who gawked at him as he ran down the dusty street cursing loudly and uncouthly. The carefully curated desire to blend in almost made him stop at the presumed grandmothers and beg that they help him hide from the ‘bad men who wanted to do bad things to a helpless western lady.’ Fortunately he was wise enough to realise that his unchanged voice would raise unwanted suspicions and that the old ladies could do little or nothing to actually hide him. For all he knew they were the grandmothers of the men who chased him.

He continued until he was certain that he was out of view and ducked into another alley and turned into an alternative form. The sun and the heat were beginning to get to him, and he was hot and dizzy. He did a quick check to ensure he was in a sensible form and finding no corset or heels, darted out into the open again, suitcase in tow.

Sincerely regretting his life choices, Scaarbach weaved through the desolate village, desperately trying to avoid the men who were no doubt after his head. He went to change direction and was annoyed to find a wretched tomcat had foolishly ran in front of him. He went to kick it but the thing had turned black for a split second and then, a black bird, possibly a raven, stood in its place.

Scaarbach squinted at the creature, perplexed but not willing to come to standstill over some magical beast or another. He tried to run around it but it flew circles around him, playfully turning in the air as though it were playing some kind of game. He had no time for bullshit and swatted the annoying cat-bird away. He managed to get a few more metres eastward when a gunshot fired. It had been far away, and probably from the location of the old ladies.

Scaarbach tried to change directions again but came face to face with a wolf. He couldn’t be sure if this was someone’s tamed pet or if it were an entirely wild animal. Cautiously he let it back him into a hut, resolving that he’d be at least secluded enough to turn to his true form for long enough to break its neck before continuing on his way.

In the relative safety of the hut, Scaarbach turned into his familiar human body, hoping the shift would spook the wolf into running away. His spectacles fogged up, so he removed them to hastily wipe them clean. He stood there, panting and sopping in sweat, near delirious from the heat, and replaced his spectacles. He blinked at the naked man who watched him intently with wolfish hunger.

Without needing to think he pulled out his gun and pointed it at the man, “Wer sind Sie? Was glauben Sie, dass Sie hier tun? Wo sind Ihr Kleider?” Scaarbach demanded.  
[ _Translation from German: Who are you? What do you think you’re doing here? Where are your clothes?_ _]_

The naked man held out his hands in a passive gesture, but the smirk on his face told another story. He spoke to the changeling in a language that sounded almost like French, but he couldn’t for the life of him understand what he meant. The man nodded slowly at Scaarbach, as though trying to communicate his intent, “Do you understand English then?”

Scaarbach nearly collapsed with relief, he was too hot and too busy to want to bother with obtuse language barriers, “I know English. What are you?” he gestured aggressively with the unloaded gun.

The naked man took a step forward, his head tilted to the side like a curious puppy, “What are you?” he echoed, “What are you doing here?”

Scaarbach lifted his head proudly, “Answer my questions! What are you doing in this place?”

The naked man took another step forward, and held a hand over the unloaded gun, “You interest me.”

A man barged into the hut, and Scaarbach was unsurprised to come face to face with his quarry once again. He turned his gun and attention to the fool, the naked man having literally vanished into thin air. The man yelled at him, pointing at the suitcase and then himself. Scaarbach could only assume what he meant.

“I’d rather die!” Scaarbach insisted, mentally preparing himself to return to his original form to make the kill.

The man rolled his eyes and casually whipped out his gun. He held it up to Scaarbach and fired, narrowly missing his shoulder. Scaarbach hadn’t even time to transform when a tiger somehow burst forth from the very walls and leapt onto the man, pinning him to the opposite wall. Scaarbach backed away as far as humanly possible, half hiding behind a threadbare curtain as he watched the tiger brutally tear out the man’s throat. It was a swift kill, one Scaarbach would have been proud to have made. Blood sprayed the walls and it let the body collapse to the floor in a fleshy heap.

To his horror and delight, the tiger turned its attention to him, padding towards him like a sociable pussy cat. He held out a hand, shuddering violently from the instincts of his human form. A grin spread across his face as he wondered what manner of creature had unnecessarily come to his rescue. He wasn’t even mad it had stolen his kill. The tiger turned black before him, and in an instant the mysterious naked man was in its place. It didn’t escape his attention how handsome he was, in a human way. His deep soulful eyes were dark brown, and his black hair thick and luscious. The beard on his face was perfectly trimmed and it seemed as though his form was flawless and untouched.

The naked man smiled gently and took Scaarbach’s outstretched hand, “My name is Baktraga,” he purred, his voice betraying his amusement, “I am called many things. You may call me a spirit, if you wish. There are some who call me fairy or wisp, I do not mind.”

“Baktraga?” Scaarbach repeated, “A spirit? A spirit who can… make forms of flesh?”

Baktraga the spirit nodded graciously, “Tell me what you are, I know you’re not human.”

“Nein!” Scaarbach withdrew his hand angrily, “I am nothing, forget me.”

The spirit tilted his head once again, pouting in a way that made his face even more inviting than it had been before, “I can read your soul, it troubles me. What are you?”

Scaarbach scowled, “I’m an agent,” he spat, realising the spirit wasn’t going to relent, “A - a hand,” he looked the spirit up and down, “I work for powers greater than myself.”

“An agent?” Baktraga mused thoughtfully, “And this pathetic human was your enemy?” he gestured at the corpse that lay crumpled unceremoniously not metres away.

Scaarbach nodded, “He wanted to kill me.”

“I will not let anyone hurt you,” Baktraga insisted, “Humans have invented ingenious ways to inflict suffering upon those of us who live in the shadows. I can imagine your urgency to remain unharmed.”

Scaarbach was unsure how to proceed. The spirit was in many ways wild and uncanny, yet he spoke in a manner not unlike an English gentleman. He looked down at the body, “It’s too hot to leave it there. Uh, how do I say Verwesung? Oh ja… the rot will be a problem.”

The spirit frowned, his face contorting with disgust, “Unpleasant business, my kind are not naturally violent, you understand, but I will defend those who need it if the inclination takes me,” he turned his attention to the corpse, “There is a house not far from here, away from the others. No one goes there.”

“Abandoned?” Scaarbach wondered.

“The villagers avoid this side of town,” Baktraga sighed, “There was a massacre, you see. British soldiers from the west trying to cause trouble.”

“Of course,” Scaarbach really couldn’t care less as to the reason, but it was good to know they were at least relatively secluded.

Baktraga stood with his hand on his hip, chewing his lip as he seemed to consider his options, “Please excuse me for one moment,” he smiled bashfully at the changeling and climbed out the window. A moment later the tiger returned and latched onto the corpse, dragging it through the window.

Scaarbach stopped to pick up the man’s pistol and followed the tiger, watching him clumsily trying to drag the corpse over a crumbling wall. There was an inelegant crunch as the body fell and Scaarbach scrambled up onto the wall to watch the spirit struggle with the body like a house cat with a pigeon.

The spirit changed again into his human form, looking up at Scaarbach, “Did you not say you’re a hand for powers greater than yourself?”

“Well,” Scaarbach laughed, “I did say that.”

“I could really use a hand,” Baktraga flashed him a wicked wink, “Although we are surely equals.”

If Scaarbach didn’t know better he’d have sworn the spirit was flirting with him, “It’s just a body,” he scoffed, “Ach, fine, but what do you expect me to do with this case?” he sighed, unexpectedly weak to the spirit’s pouting.

Baktraga leapt up and took the case from him, and hooked it around the corpse’s belt, “Does this please you?”

“An… unconventional solution,” Scaarbach laughed.

⁂

The building was indeed abandoned, and it had been for many years. Its roof had collapsed and the east wing had entirely crumbled. Scaarbach sheltered under what little shade it could provide, physically nauseous from the heat of the sun. It hadn’t been terribly far, perhaps only fifteen minutes away ordinarily, but helping a tiger carry a dead body up the dusty road while wearing spectacles that fogged up every five minutes had proven to be a laborious task. He had rescued the suitcase before the spirit had kicked the corpse into what appeared to be the remains of the cellar.

He brushed away the salt that had crystallised from his sweat as though it were sand. It certainly felt like sand. He let himself slide down the crumbling wall and closed his eyes, listening intently for sounds of anyone approaching. He heard a low rumble and was met with a gentle headbutt from his occasionally feline companion. He opened his eyes, watching him turn to his human form.

“Agent?” Baktraga asked softly.

“Are you finished yet?” Scaarbach wondered impatiently.

The spirit nodded, “Do you remember the way?”

“Of course I do,” Scaarbach scoffed, getting to his feet.

Baktraga turned into a bird, he was pretty sure it was a raven, and perched on his head. He started to shoo him away but stopped when he realised the spirit was holding out his wings in an attempt to shelter him from the sun. It was a confusing gesture, but he had more important things to do than bother about the manners of ravens.

He plodded along the road, trying not to weave from dizziness, the salt from his sweat stinging his chafing lips. His stomach gripped and acid rose to his throat. He thought longingly of the long winter he had spent with Sasha, huddling together for warmth as the snow rose around them.

Scaarbach eventually got to the hut and climbed in through the window, nearly collapsing in a puddle on the floor. He sat down and wiped his brow. It wasn’t much cooler in the hut but at least it offered decent protection from the abominable sun. Baktraga approached him, human once again, and licked the changeling’s cheek.

“Stop that!” Scaarbach grumbled, in too foul a mood to wonder why the spirit had done such a weird thing.

Baktraga smacked his lips thoughtfully, and dug inside the only piece of furniture in the entire hut, “I can help,” he grinned brightly, pulling out a pitcher.

“What is that? Water?” Scaarbach rasped, diving for it greedily.

He took the entire thing and emptied it into his mouth. His body had taken over complete control and he gulped it down as though his life depended on it, streams of fresh water ran down his chin and soaked his shirt. He was so hot it felt like an exquisite delight. Scaarbach gasped for air, choking, clutching his chest at the intense pain of nearly drowning himself in desperation.

Baktraga took the empty pitcher and rested it on the dilapidated cabinet, “You must be hungry, here I have this,” he handed the changeling a single piece of flatbread, “I don’t need to eat, here you have it.”

Scaarbach squinted at the spirit, not trusting his apparent generosity for a second, “If you don’t need to eat, why do you have food?”

“It was a gift,” Baktraga explained simply, “I fetch water for the old ones who are too feeble to fetch it on their own. They have family but I like to help.”

“I see,” Scaarbach frowned, wondering why a spirit would care about helping anyone. He sat on the ground and ate the bread solemnly, sizing up his companion’s trustworthiness.

Baktraga squatted in front of him and pressed a hand within the deep recesses of his clothes, and to Scaarbach’s bewilderment burst into a fit of giggles, “No wonder you are hot! Why would anyone wear such nonsense?”

“Well I…,” Scaarbach wanted to defend himself but the wool-blend suit had been an unambiguous mistake, “I thought it looked more professional,” he sulked.

“Wait for me Agent, I’ll bring you a gift,” Baktraga disappeared into the walls and left the changeling alone.

The hut was essentially empty, whether the spirit had been living there or not was unclear, but if it were his home, he had little to show for it. It was essentially a single room, with a curtain on one end acting as a petition. The only real splash of colour was red. The flaking red paint on the cabinet, the angry red from the blood sprayed on the walls.

It was hot and he was hot, marinating in his own juices. Flies had begun to gather and Scaarbach didn’t want to know if they had come to the smell of death… or to that of himself. He sighed, taking off his jacket and rolling up the sleeves on his shirt. He kicked off his shoes, and unpeeled his sodden socks. He wriggled his toes and rolled up his trousers to the knees. After a moment’s pause, he decided to unbutton his shirt.

He checked the time on his watch and confirmed that he had at least an hour before he needed to think about the train. If it was running late as it had done that morning, he probably had more like three. He closed his eyes, ears on the look out, and found himself quickly drifting off to sleep.

⁂

“Ach!” Scaarbach yelped, awoken by a warm, wet drizzle on his face, “Was zum Teufel machen Sie da?” he looked up at Baktraga standing over him holding two buckets of water, “Oh.”  
[ _Translation from German: What the hell do you think you’re doing?_ _]_

Baktraga put a bucket on the ground and tossed the contents of the other over the blood stained floor. He ducked outside and returned with a broom, sweeping the slush out onto the streets, “You should bathe after helping me with such unpleasant business. It really is the least I can do.”

Scaarbach looked at the spirit completely mystified, “I will be fine, mein Freund,” he insisted, growing more and more suspicious, “I can survive without hospitality.”

“I insist,” Baktraga smiled down at the changeling aggressively, “I have soap. Wouldn’t you feel so much better after washing with soap and water?”

Scaarbach chewed his lip sulkily, “There is soap and water at the hotel.”

“There is soap and water here,” Baktraga insisted.

“I’m just a nobody. Spend your kindness on someone who deserves it,” Scaarbach bowed his head in a feigned gesture of humility.

“You helped me, you deserve it,” Baktraga’s smile was as unwavering as his will.

“You are mistaken, mein Freund,” Scaarbach continued his act of false humility.

“Then who was it who helped me dispose of that pest?” Baktraga asked, his voice sweet as honey.

“I only did that because you asked me to,” Scaarbach scowled, quickly tiring of the spirit’s games.

“Yet I am asking you and you refuse,” Baktraga noted.

“I…,” Scaarbach looked at the spirit standing by the entryway of the hut, his arms folded and brow raised defiant, “Fine!” he spat, “Where is your damned soap?”

Baktraga closed the door to the hut and returned to the cabinet, pulling out the sorrowful remains of what had probably been a fresh bar of soap in its former life, “It’s not much but it will do,” he pulled the curtain aside to open up the room.

Scaarbach snatched the soap and looked around, “Where am I supposed to do this? Do you even have a rag?”

Baktraga tsked and pulled out a strip of cloth from the cabinet and tossed it to him. He fetched the emptied bucket of water and turned it over like a stool, “Go ahead,” he said and then jumped outside the window humming to himself happily.

Scaarbach sighed and stripped off his shirt and undershirt, carefully folding them and placing them on the cabinet. He slipped off his braces and unbuttoned his flies, pausing as the spirit climbed in through the window once again, “Are you going to sit there and watch me?” the changeling demanded through gritted teeth.

“Why not?” Baktraga wondered, still humming to himself as he sat on the window sill.

“Why not?” Scaarbach repeated mockingly, “I’m pretty sure modesty exists here too you know.”

“Hmm,” Baktraga mused, “You are not human, but possess a number of human forms. Your current one seeming to be your preference, and yet… you are also ashamed of it?”

Scaarbach glared at the spirit, “You don’t understand.”

“Have you sworn an oath of modesty?” Baktraga wondered, his brow knitting as though he were trying to unravel a perplexing conundrum.

“No,” Scaarbach sighed, “It just makes me… ill at ease.”

“Why?” Baktraga frowned.

“I am not…,” Scaarbach gestured dismissively at the spirit’s human form, “I am not… wild like you.”

“So you are tamed and ashamed?” Baktraga smirked.

Scaarbach scowled and dropped his trousers, “I am not tamed,” he insisted, folding the rest of his clothes and leaving his spectacles atop the pile, “I’m just not wild. I at least try to seem human,” he sat on the bucket, working the slither of soap in the rag into a lather with a bit of water.

“Could it be that pretending to be human made you feel human?” Baktraga asked innocently.

The changeling’s eyes widened with insult, “How dare you!” Scaarbach spat, “Humans disgust me,” he added, lathering the soap on his skin.

Baktraga remained silent as the changeling made do with what little soap and water he had at his disposal. It was no Roman bath but he had to admit to himself that it felt better to wash the filth of the terrible day off his skin. The spirit watched him with a self-satisfied expression, humming to himself a song Scaarbach didn’t recognise. After he had washed away the majority of the soap he found his mind drifting, trying to figure out exactly where his day had gone so abysmally wrong.

“Are you finished?” Baktraga asked brightly after Scaarbach had sat immobile for several minutes.

“Huh? Uh, hmm,” Scaarbach murmured, his attention far away, “Ja… yes, I seem to be.”

The spirit disappeared from the window sill and reappeared next to Scaarbach. He grabbed the bucket of water and unceremoniously poured it’s entire contents over him.

Scaarbach sighed, he had chosen to keep his drawers on for modesty’s sake but there were only so many secrets wet fabric could hide, “Danke,” he said flatly, “Thanks a _lot_.”

Baktraga beamed, his nose wrinkling with his broad grin, “You’re welcome.”

“What am I supposed to dry with?” Scaarbach wondered.

Baktraga’s grin became wry, “The sun.”

“Ach,” Scaarbach rolled his eyes.

Scaarbach sat on the floor of the hut, waiting for his skin, and more importantly his drawers to dry. Having returned to a state that met with adequate hygiene standards, and judging the spirit to be suspicious yet benevolent, Scaarbach turned his attention to the case.

He unlocked it using a pick he had hidden on his suspenders and opened it with reverence. Hidden within layers and layers of linen, his true quarry revealed itself.

The vase inside was fairly old, probably six centuries, Italian by the look of it. On one side the vase depicted a map, unlabelled but clearly a map. On the other were figures gathered around a temple underground, a large Minotaur-like beast and beauteous golden woman overlooking them from their thrones.

Rumour had said it was of Hades and Persephone residing in the underworld but those of the Janus Order would see different figures altogether. The glaze had lost some of its vibrancy and much of the detail had been obscured. He examined it closely under the light of the sun, turning it so the pigments had a chance to show their true nature.

Something felt… off. The cracks in the glaze weren’t what they should have been. Something bothered him about the purple used that… he groaned, and reached inside the vase, pulling out an object bundled in linen. At first glance it seemed to be there to add interior protection to the artefact, but nestled within contained several glass cylinders of little human pills.

“Verdammte Scheiße!” Scaarbach spat bitterly, throwing the pills out the open window, “Eine Fälschung? Scheiße!” he held the vase up to the sun again and glowered at it, “Lila? Lila! Die Amateure!”  
[ _Translation from German: Fucking shit! A forgery? Shit! Purple? Purple! The amateurs!_ _]_

“What’s the problem?” Baktraga wondered.

“It,” Scaarbach glared angrily at the spirit, “It is a _fake_! Nothing but a repainted old vase! To hide… _pills_!” he turned the vase in his hands desperately, “But I don’t understand, the resemblance is unmistakable?”

Baktraga reached out and took the vase, examining the figures thoughtfully, “Resemblance to whom?”

Scaarbach snatched the vase back, “Nobody! You saw nothing!” he snapped, he examined the vase more closely, there seemed to be Trollish runes behind the figures, “Könnte das möglich sein?” he whispered under his breath.  
[ _Translation from German: Could it be possible?_ _]_

He supposed it could be possible that the humans had stumbled across evidence of trollish civilisation but were too ignorant to even consider it more than old looking art. The glaze on the vase was new, improperly fired, using chemical compounds that had not been in use a hundred years prior. The vase underneath was as old it seemed however. How like humans to ruin a perfectly good piece of antiquity to make it seem more legitimate.

But how they could have stumbled upon anything trollish escaped him. None of the men had seemed like big readers, it was unlikely they had copied the design from a book. Perhaps a local artist had happened upon something incriminating within a cave. He couldn’t be certain. It was certainly possible an artist could have stumbled upon a ruin, mistaking it as human in origin, and then included a map to get there, and then the other humans had been too ignorant to be able to tell the design and map apart. It troubled him.

“You were after the map, weren’t you?” Baktraga asked, “You’re right, it’s not real geography.”

“What are you talking about?” Scaarbach wondered, his theory beginning to crumble in his mind.

“The mountains are in the wrong position,” Baktraga turned the vase over in the changeling’s hands, “I may have seen art like that before though. Possibly on a temple wall, or something like it.”

“Where!” Scaarbach demanded, “Where is the temple?”

“I don’t know,” Baktraga shrugged, “That would require your assistance.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Scaarbach couldn’t tell if the spirit was serious or merely playing with him but he was too desperate to let the opportunity slip away.

Baktraga closed his eyes and his body fell away to ash, the spirit encircled him playfully and reformed behind the changeling, “I am old,” he said, his voice wistful and soft, “Ancient.”

Scaarbach spun around, “So? I’m hundreds of years old.”

“I…,” Baktraga chewed his lip, “I am now… but I have been _now_ for many centuries.”

“You’re talking nonsense,” Scaarbach’s patience was waning.

“I remember but a mere fraction of all that I know,” Baktraga cocked his head back proudly, “But inside you that fraction is one.”

Scaarbach rolled his eyes, “You’re _still_ talking nonsense.”

The spirit took a step forward and put his hands on the changeling’s shoulders, “Within you, I return to my true self, my _whole_ self, I will remember everything I have ever known, everything I’ve seen, everything I’ve done, everything I was.”

“I…,” Scaarbach gulped, the spirit was gazing into his eyes so deeply it was as though he could see inside his very soul, if indeed he had one, “I’m not sure I follow?”

Baktraga sighed, “I am sorry, human languages fail to do the act of… joining justice,” he gripped the changeling’s shoulders tightly, “Allow my soul to penetrate your own, it will spark my memories and you will be able to read them as easily as books in a library.”

Scaarbach chuckled, “I’m not so sure I have one of those.”

The spirit frowned at Scaarbach, his brow a deep furrowed ridge, “A soul? You absolutely do, I can feel it as easily as you see daylight, or hear my voice as I speak.”

“Oh?” Scaarbach felt slightly strange for hearing it but he couldn’t figure out why, “How do you… how do you do that then?”

“How do you see, how do you hear? It’s a sense like any other,” Baktraga nodded assuredly, as though delivering a known fact to a curious child, “At our core, we are not physical, so I can pass through just about anything. When I pass through another soul, we link—” he withdrew both of his hands to demonstrate with his fingers, interlocking them to the knuckles, “— and boundaries blur. I will become whole, and you will be able to peer within my mind.”

“Oh!” Scaarbach exclaimed, finally understanding what the spirit was trying to describe, “I understand,” it was a worrisome proposal but he was desperate, “But is it safe? Will it hurt?”

Baktraga laughed, “It’s perfectly safe, presuming you are sound of heart and mind. Would you say you’re of sound heart and mind?”

“Of course!” Scaarbach insisted, “I’m the sanest person I know!”

Baktraga nodded graciously, “So you will allow me to assist you?”

A small part of him was screaming at him that he was walking straight into danger, “I…,” he hesitated, if Scaarbach couldn’t at least find evidence of another stone, he could kiss his new powers goodbye and say hello to his new station in New Zealand, “What happens to the people you do this with?”

“What happens?” Baktraga smiled apologetically, “People have a number of reactions, I really can’t predict how you will take to it, but you won’t come to harm.”

Scaarbach swallowed nervously, “And then what do you plan to do with me?”

“Plan?” Baktraga frowned, “I have no plans. Perhaps I will choose to go back to sleep, perhaps I will help you further, perhaps we will part ways. It really doesn’t matter.”

“Promise me you won’t change me, that I’ll be the same I always was,” Scaarbach demanded, cursing himself for wanting to risk everything.

Baktraga burst into joyous laughter, “Oh my dear Agent,” he cupped his hands around the changeling’s face gently, a warm smile dancing on his face, “I can promise that you have nothing to fear from me.”

Scaarbach shooed the overly familiar spirit’s hands away, “You have no concept of physical boundaries,” he ran a hand through his hair feeling self-conscious, “But I will remember your words in case you betray me.”

The smile fell from the spirit’s face, “How would I betray you?” Baktraga asked, his voice low and serious.

“You tell me,” Scaarbach looked the spirit up and down, no telling what the spirit was capable of, and unfortunately that went in both directions, “I’m sure it’s not so hard to kill a spirit,” he let the threat dangle in the air like bait.

“You have every right to distrust me Agent,” Baktraga said, his deep sorrowful eyes full of some kind of emotion, “You’ve clearly led a rough life——”

“What gave you that impression?” Scaarbach laughed, gesturing at the scars that decorated his body like doodles in the borders of a child’s journal.

“Your soul,” Baktraga replied simply.

“I know what I am,” the changeling stated proudly, “You can’t shame me for being impure,” Scaarbach winced, he hadn’t meant to identify himself in any way but he couldn’t turn back time.

“Who told you you’re… _impure_?” Baktraga demanded, his voice betraying a low level of disgust.

“That’s none of your business,” Scaarbach tried to pull himself up with dignity, a difficult feat when standing in nothing but one’s drawers.

“If you will allow me to assist you, you must be able to trust me with some of your business,” Baktraga sighed, “Let’s start small, what is your name? Do you even have a name? If no one has given you a name of your own, I can give you one.”

For a moment Scaarbach considered giving him a false name, but something about the spirit’s manner, his tone of voice, made it seem as though he could see through a lie in an instant, “Ottokar,” Scaarbach replied, his voice low as though he were afraid they’d be overheard.

Baktraga nodded graciously, “Thank you, Ottokar. Prove to me that you are ready. Tell me a secret you have told no one else.”

Scaarbach felt his breath catch in his throat, all of his secrets he kept so dearly, “I - I…,” he stammered, desperately trying to think of one he could spare, “My secrets aren’t pleasant ones.”

“That’s to be expected,” Baktraga smiled warmly at the changeling, “Few people keep pleasant things to themselves.”

“Your eyes frighten me,” Scaarbach breathed quietly, he hadn’t meant to say it but the words had come out all the same, if the Lady was testing him then he was surely failing.

The spirit tilted his head to the side, his expression one of heartbreak, “Why do they frighten you?”

“I don’t know,” Scaarbach lied, “You see more than you say.”

Baktraga nodded solemnly, “If you spend your entire life in the shadows, I suppose someone like myself _would_ be terrifying, but you have nothing to fear from me.”

“Baktraga, you seem like a good person,” Scaarbach said wearily, “But I am… I am not, in any way, a good person.”

“You who calls yourself impure? You whose body is etched in suffering? You whose soul is screaming at all times? You are worried I will find you unworthy of empathy?” Baktraga wondered, his tone dancing between tenderness and disgust.

Scaarbach looked up at the spirit blankly, completely and utterly unsure how to respond, if it were a test from his Lady he had no idea what she was trying to prove, “Don’t speak like you know me,” he replied defensively after a long moments pause.

“But that was your secret, was it not?” Baktraga smiled in a way that suggested he didn’t need to presume.

“I…?” Scaarbach looked critically at the spirit, the longer he spent in his company the more he wondered if he could taste the smallest glimmer of unimaginable power, “It was,” he conceded.

“Very good,” Baktraga put a hand on his shoulder, “You will want to lie down for this, it will be like sleeping.”

Scaarbach found he was holding his breath, he wanted so desperately to learn what the spirit had to show him, but every fibre of his being was convinced it was a trick, “This better not be a trick,” he muttered, lowering himself to the ground.

The spirit looked hurt, “Why would I deceive you? What would I have to gain?” Baktraga knelt next to him.

“I have no idea,” Scaarbach had to admit that while he had everything to lose, the spirit really did seem to have nothing to gain, “Maybe you secretly want to eat me?”

Baktraga burst into laughter, “Eat you? Would you taste like a fresh juicy pomegranate, do you think?”

“Probably not,” Scaarbach smiled sheepishly.

“No, you’re more of a _peach_ I think,” Baktraga grinned, his nose wrinkling.

Scaarbach sighed wearily, wondering not for the first time if the spirit was flirting with him, “Because I have a heart of stone?”

“Hmm, we shall see about that,” Baktraga ran a hand through his hair absently, “Have you ever had someone inside your head before?”

“Yes,” Scaarbach admitted.

“Who?” Baktraga wondered.

Scaarbach frowned, “I am not permitted to say.”

“You do understand that while I will respect your secrets, I cannot control your thoughts or your memories coming to surface?” Baktraga asked, resting a hand on his shoulder again.

“That is a risk I’m prepared to make,” Scaarbach replied, far more resolute than he realised, he wondered if he was straying too far, but he had sworn he’d do anything and everything it took to complete the mission.

Baktraga nodded solemnly, “I will take care of you, don’t worry,” the spirits form fell into nothingness, the cloud of ash dancing around the surface of the soul of light.

Scaarbach took a deep breath, silently praying that he wasn’t making a dreadful, unforgivable reprehensible mistake. He closed his eyes and felt the strange tingling sensation as the spirit grew nearer, the hairs on his skin standing on end. There was the feeling of being within and without, a flash of light, and a sharp pain in his chest.

The spirit unfurled within Scaarbach, each aspect of himself like droplets of rain until the great and glorious sea that was Baktraga engulfed him whole. He remembered everything. The feeling of air gushing past his wings, the weeping of a child who died long before humans first forged iron, a palace carved into stone, the great tundra that had once seemed eternal.

It had not been so long ago that Scaarbach had offered himself up to his Lady Creator and she had deemed him worthy. He still vibrated from the humbling experience of having his Goddess read the fibre of his being as one would a book. But Baktraga was not like his Lady Creator, he did not hide himself away from view, taunting Scaarbach with the depth of his devotion, the deeds he had done that scarred him more than any blade or fire ever could.

Baktraga was an ecstasy within him, he did not humble with divinity, it was his sheer scope that brought Scaarbach to his figurative knees. He pawed at the memories given, scrambling for something that made him feel… close. He ignored his own sins that came bubbling to the surface, in the vast ocean that was Baktraga’s potential he could not afford to waste a second on memories he did his best to ignore at the best of times. They had no value to the mission, they no value in the face of what he could find.

This troubled the spirit who himself was more concerned with the bubbling black bogs that made up Scaarbach’s past. He pulled young Beetling out of nothing, and for him he wept. The spirit mourned the loss of all that a changeling could be, the stoneless who had no one to turn to in the face of their wonderous Lady Creator’s wrath. Baktraga tried to show him that Velima had been right, that there had been sanctuary further east. But she had not met Baktraga and so died at the hands of someone who had once shared her stone.

Scaarbach tried to pull him away, angry he would threaten his stone for the memories of those who had deserved their violent ends. Baktraga angered more, engulfing him in the fiery flames of indignation, furious at not Scaarbach, or indeed any changeling at all, but at those who held them in subjugation, tethered puppets with not so much as a real name to call their own.

Within himself he fought the spirit, loyal to the core. He showed the magnificence of his Golden Queen, the glory of the Pure, as though evidence in a court of law. But Baktraga was not impressed. In turn he showered Scaarbach in the divinity that lay within him. The vast array of forms he had taken into himself, the languages he collected like butterflies, lovers, passion, tenderness and compassion as endless as time itself. He offered sanctuary like none Scaarbach had ever known, and within the depths of all that he was, Scaarbach knew he meant it more than anything in the world.

But Scaarbach had no such time to waste, he found a temple, lost to time, perhaps known only to Baktraga on the surface realms. A mosaic underground, magic woven into the great hall that felt familiar and alien all at once. He tried to burn the memory of each detail into his mind, determined to get there and search it for himself.

And then the spirit caught the one memory he needed. The stone in the young Charlie’s possession, the way the magic felt in his hands. And as the night of passion they had spent together brought itself into the forefront of their minds, Baktraga recalled a stone, buried in a lake much further south. It had been left there by a troll, their stone of glittering nuummite that shone like the stars at night. Another stone, certain triumph, the softness of Charlie’s skin, Baktraga’s promise of sanctuary as they tore apart like agony.

Scaarbach opened his eyes, heart beating in his chest and breath caught in his lungs. The heat clung to his flesh and sweat ran down his clammy skin. He pulled himself up to lean against the wall behind him, the roughness off it grating against his hot and naked skin.

His vision was blurry but he watched a ball of light and shadows transform into the figure of a handsome olive skinned man. He didn’t care who he was. He didn’t care who either of them were. He was in the presence of ancient primordial power and he wanted it for himself more than anything in the world. The figure, the exquisite and fantastical Baktraga, sat across from him, thigh pressed into his own. Scaarbach took a deep breath, his entire body so electrified he was positive he was shaking.

Their eyes had locked and he was certain the spirit could still see inside his mind. He outstretched a hand towards the spirit, grasping desperately at the hairs upon his chest. His hand moved down as though he were possessed and he stopped at the man’s navel, the voice inside his head screaming that he was venturing into dangerous territory far more than he had done before.

Baktraga’s expression was shockingly, disgustingly warm. This creature had seen inside his mind, he had seen everything that he was, everything he had done, everything he felt. He should have been met with disgust, he knew absolutely that he deserved it, but the spirit gazed at him with such warmth. Baktraga put a hand over the outstretched hand that still grasped at his flesh, and followed a trail around his wrist and up his arm.

Baktraga leant forward and delicately wiped the sweat from Scaarbach’s brow, “Ashinar,” he spoke the unknown word with such tenderness Scaarbach felt his stomach turn knots, “Wie fühlst du dich?”  
[ _Translation from German: How do you feel?_ ]

Scaarbach frowned, the spirit had not known German but a moment before and yet he seemed to have stolen it from under his very nose. “Mir—” he looked down at his body and winced, there was no dignity in his position, “— geht es gut, ja, mir geht es gut.”  
[ _Translation from German: I am… fine, yes, I am fine._ ]

Baktraga tore his deep brown eyes away and looked down at him, “Iç habed aštete tüŋ gestollan, su deleçam miþ mis habe.” His eyes met with Scaarbach’s again, evidently resolved to leave him the smallest spectre of dignity.  
[ _Translation from Changeling: I stole your tongues, do not be angry with me._ ]

Scaarbach held his breath in awe, the creature had stolen every language he had known without him even realising, but the amount of power that would require would surely be extraordinary, “Bitte—”

The spirit looked at him carefully and let his hand brush against his thigh, tracing the outlines of scars fresh and old. Scaarbach bit his lip, trying not to succumb to weakness.

Baktraga’s brows rose, “Iç kenn, doi mein ašte.”  
[ _Translation from Changeling: I know what you’re thinking._ ]

Scaarbach looked at the spirit with thinly veiled alarm, “You do, spirit of sin?”

“Spirit of sin,” Baktraga chuckled to himself, “Açe mein fan þryke läçu.” He withdrew his hand to run it through his own thick black hair. “But you’re asking the wrong question.”  
[ _Translation from Changeling: You’re thinking of rule number three._ ]

“Huh?” Scaarbach wondered vaguely through the mist of heat.

“The question isn’t about utilisation, but rather—” Baktraga gestured elegantly with his hand, “What do _you_ want?” The spirit smiled with the calm confidence of a predator and sent shivers down Scaarbach’s spine.

“I don’t want anything,” Scaarbach replied automatically, the answer instilled within him from when he was nothing, no, less than nothing.

The spirit tilted his head, his disapproval radiating from every last inch of him, “Is that truly so, Ashinar?”

Scaarbach thought of everything he wanted, every desire he had that went unfulfilled. He leant forward, hand clutching at the spirit’s chest, “I want… everything,” he hissed desperately, despising the blasphemy that left his traitorous tongue.

Baktraga’s expression turned to something akin to pity, “What do you want?”

Scaarbach swallowed, breath heavy in his lungs, “Bitte—”

“What do you want?” Baktraga repeated, the smallest hint of force behind his honeyed tone.

“Kweimer mute drygan,” Scaarbach hissed, “I want you to be mine,” he pulled himself onto his knees, “I want to be yours,” his hands gripped around the spirit’s shoulders like a vice, “I want… I want your sanctuary?” It was as much a confession as a plea, he recoiled, sickened by his own weakness.  
[ _Translation from Changeling: Changelings are meant to serve._ ]

Baktraga looked at him with deep sorrowful eyes. “Ashinerin,” he sighed, wrapping his arms around Scaarbach and holding him tight.

And so Scaarbach took sanctuary where he found it, worshipping at the feet of a god who was for him and him alone. Both blasphemous and divine, he was gentle when Scaarbach expected cruelty, and for him, and him alone, Baktraga had shown him his stone. His trollish form, as false and true as the spirit could create, was unlike any Scaarbach had ever seen before. His stone was dark as the night sky and glittered like the stars on a cloudless night, nuummite, like a sign from his Lady Creator.

Baktraga’s features were long and his grin wide. He spoke Changeling with tenderness, and Scaarbach inhaled deeply, for as beautiful as he found the spirit as a human, his troll form spoke to him on a deep, profound level of a perfection he would never achieve. He felt woefully and bitterly inadequate, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him take what treasures he could seize for his own glory.

⁂

Scaarbach awoke with a grunt and sat himself up, rubbing his eyes sleepily. He had to admit that despite staying up late to scribble some sketches from memory, he had slept unusually well. The usual nightmares that had plagued him for centuries were strangely absent, and he had awoken feeling, if not happy, then well rested. 

He sent for the hotel staff and got them to send up hot water. They had not, as it happened, sent up enough to fill a bathtub, but it was enough for his purposes. He sat on the edge of his bed and lathered a small amount of soap in his hands, soaping the usual bits that required attention, and let his mind wonder. 

The spirit he had encountered the day before had been an extraordinary stroke of luck. It could only have been by the grace of the Pale Lady they had stumbled upon one another, goodness knew that the likes of him didn’t receive luck in any other way. But the spirit was a risk, far more of a risk than he would ordinarily like to take. 

The others in the Order would most likely not understand. Baktraga was in some ways obscenely powerful, and he would be seen as a threat to Her divine authority. If Scaarbach hadn’t joined with the spirit he would have felt exactly the same. 

Yet Baktraga genuinely seemed to be entirely lacking in ambition in any way, shape or form. He lived, by all appearances, to satisfy his own needs and curiosity, satisfied to pretend to be flesh for mere momentary pleasures. Scaarbach felt a pang of envy and had to remind himself that duty and purpose were of far greater satisfaction than anything the spirit would ever experience. Still, with gentle prodding, this Baktraga could be made to serve a purpose far greater than his own. 

**Author's Note:**

> It's going to be a while before I get to this point, but this is _the_ scene I wrote before I wrote any of the White Rabbit. Written during the xmas/new year break of 2018-19. You may recognise this moment from Chapter 22 of Whispers Within. And yes, if you were wondering, 'there was no dignity in his position' and 'he had bloomed for Baktraga like a flower shooting forth from the cracked soil after rain' _are_ essentially saying the same thing. ;)


End file.
